


You've Got to (Re)Learn How to Crawl Before You Can Learn How to Walk, Much Less Hunt

by Uratha



Series: Route 666: The Road to a Cure [5]
Category: Grimm (TV), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), The Gates, The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Werewolf Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28757529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uratha/pseuds/Uratha
Summary: What happens when everything you know--or think you know--is wrong?  What happens when the people who are supposed to mean the most to you are little more than strangers?  Do you forget love, or can you learn to love again?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Dean Winchester
Series: Route 666: The Road to a Cure [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/251590
Comments: 14
Kudos: 11





	1. Sam 2.0

**Author's Note:**

> First off, welcome back to any returning readers, and a welcome to any new ones. Let me begin by saying that absolutely no familiarity is required with the earlier chapters of this series. All will be made clear to you as it's being made clear to a certain central character, whose mind is more than a bit muddled. That's a nice way of saying his memories are shit, which is how I feel when I look back on my earliest works in this series (and on this site). I think (hope) my writing has improved, but more than that, I would have done things differently (not to mention pay attention to little things like werewolves not being vulnerable to silver--/facepalm) . This is both an ending to what's come before in this series (sort of ;) and a fresh start to begin anew. I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know! I'm extremely appreciative for any feedback, be it comments, kudos, criticism, etc., so as YouTube has drilled into me, "If you want to see more, hit LIKE and SUBSCRIBE" :)

_“He’s in here!”_ a voice shouted. It sounded familiar, but Dean’s head was fuzzy. He couldn’t quite place it, but that was hardly surprising. He couldn’t even open his eyes, much less place himself. Where was he? How had he gotten here? How long _had_ he been here anyway?

His arms were heavy. His legs were heavy. Hell, his whole _body_ was heavy. He tried to will it to move, but it wouldn’t obey. He wasn’t sure it even could. His body alternated between a numbness bordering on paralysis and a fiery pain shooting through every nerve ending making him wish he were dead. _Was_ he dead? The layman might say there was no pain after death, but Dean’s own “eternity” in Hell years ago suggested otherwise.

 _“Move!”_ another voice commanded gruffly. He felt something sharp being shoved into his arm. No. That wasn’t right. It was being pulled _out_ , and it hurt… a _lot_. Whomever belonged to that seemed to recognize his pain. He felt a touch against his skin. By the size of the hand, it was a man—undoubtedly the man to who had spoken—but he still couldn’t force his scattered thoughts to make sense. The grip was light and surprisingly gentle. _“It’s okay. I’ve got you,”_ the voice whispered softly into his ear, and strangely, just like that, the worst of the pain was gone, and he was being cradled against a strong chest and lifted into the air as though he weighed nothing.

“Sammy,” he tried to weakly croak out, but his voice was so dry and untested that he couldn’t even manage a whisper. His brother was his go-to for everything, and it was the only name that sprang from his mind. He knew that neither voice was his younger brother, but he needed to know that whatever fate had befallen him hadn’t been shared by the one he’d been told to protect since he was four years old. Strangely, someone had heard him. The first voice offered soothing reassurance. _“Sam’s safe. He’s been looking for you—we all have. We’re taking you to him. Just rest now.”_

Dean limply smiled and did as he’d been told. He surrendered to the darkness and let the weariness in his bones overtake his consciousness with sleep.

He awoke sometime later to find himself in a bed. It was a hospital bed if the antiseptic assault on his senses was any indication. He pushed his eyelids open with supreme effort to find a nurse changing a bag of IV fluids to his side. The attractive, middle-aged Latina woman noticed his staring, and she gave him one of the warmest smiles he’d ever seen. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Dean,” she told him.

The way she said it made Dean sure that she knew him, but he couldn’t place the face. Some part of him, though, told him that he could trust her. “Sammy?” he asked with a throaty garble. She smiled again, stepping aside to reveal his brother passed out in an uncomfortable-looking position in the hospital chair.

“He hasn’t left your side except to go to the bathroom and when I forced him to go take a shower in one of the call rooms when he started to smell rank,” she almost laughed in a hushed voice, clearly trying not to wake the taller hunter. “Pretty sure he and Derek would have starved to death a week ago if I didn’t bring them some of the finest culinary atrocities that the cafeteria had to offer.”

He wanted to laugh, but he instinctively knew that remained a bad idea. “A week?” he repeated.

She nodded in affirmation. “You’ve been here for several weeks,” she explained, and her lack of a specific number wasn’t lost on Dean. She didn’t say _a couple_. She said _several_. She must have seen the gears turning, because she went on to elaborate, “You’ve woken up several times since they brought you in, but this is the longest you’ve stayed awake.”

He mentally nodded as he tried to fill in the gaps in his memories with what little she’d said. One piece of the puzzle didn’t fit. He looked over at the man who wasn’t his brother, repeating the foreign name the nurse had supplied. “Derek?” he repeated uncertainly.

The man—Derek—heard his name, and more importantly, he’d heard the one who spoke it. He jerked awake with a start and sprang from his seat. He moved even closer to Dean and placed a hand on his forehead. “I’m here, Dean.” Under normal circumstances, the hunter would have likely taken a swing on him. These were far from normal circumstances, though, and recognized the touch as one of the ones who’s brought him here; more specifically, he knew Derek was the one who’d carried him.

Dean didn’t understand, and at the risk of offending the person who’d saved his life, he had to ask. “Do I know you?”

Derek was beyond crestfallen. He looked as if Dean had ripped his heart from his chest. Dean could feel the man’s hand start to tremble and watched as Derek looked to the nurse with an uncertainty bordering on abject terror. For her part, the woman was calm. She placed a hand stop Dean’s free hand. “Do you remember me?” she asked without judgment.

As much as it pained him to rebuff her kindness, he owed her honesty. He shook his head. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“I’m Melissa McCall,” she smiled sympathetically. “You’ve been through a lot of trauma. You’ve likely blocked out some things, but beyond that, some short-term memory loss is probably to be expected. I’ll talk to Dr. Geyer and see if he wants to order any scans or lab tests, but for now, just rest.”

She waved Sam forward. “You asked for your brother by name, so I think it’s safe to say you remember him?” Dean met his brother’s hopeful gaze and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Then I’m just going to let you two talk while I take a break and walk with Derek to get some coffee. There are lots of other people who will be relieved to know you’re awake, but don’t you worry about that right now. We’ll take things slow.”

She gave Derek’s shoulder a squeeze, and dejectedly, the werewolf withdrew his hand. Melissa, however, noticed that Dean had made no move to remove it himself, which she hoped was a good sign. Wordlessly, she took him out of the room, leaving the hunters alone.

“You gave us all quite a scare,” Sam told Dean, scooting closer to the bed, giving Dean’s hand a squeeze.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “I’m not exactly sure who ‘us’ is,” he confessed. “I’m not sure of much of anything. What happened to me, Sammy?”

Sam remained completely calm, as though he’d expected the question. “You disappeared on a hunt,” he explained. “You were taken by the djinn Alpha. I remember how much it twisted you up when it was a peon-level. I can’t imagine how long it will take for its venom to get completely out of your system. That’s why I told everyone to be patient. It will come back with time, but none of us knows exactly how long we’re looking at.”

There was that collective plural again. _Everyone_ this time instead of _us_. Dean still didn’t know who Sam was talking about. Presumably, Melissa McCall was one of them, since gave him a vibe like she knew him. That was certainly an understatement where Derek was concerned. “Sammy, who’s Derek?”

“That’s… _complicated_ ,” Sam smiled in a way that let Dean know he meant in a _good_ way, rather than a bad. “It would be better to let you remember it on your own than for me to tell you.”

Dean glowered at his brother. “Sammy, just say it. I’m a big boy.”

Sam shrugged. “Quit being stubborn and listen to me for a change, give your mind a chance to put everything back in order. It’s not going to make sense for me to tell you _who_ Derek is to you if you don’t even remember _who_ he is at all.”

The elder Winchester started to protest, but in his weakened state, he didn’t feel like fighting, so he reluctantly agreed. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. He wasn’t certain if the hour was morning or night, only assuming the latter because Sam and Derek had been sleeping. There was a dry erase board on it with several pieces of information. It identified Melissa as his nurse, which he already knew, and Dr. Geyer as his admitting physician, which he also knew (both courtesy of Melissa). The date was a surprise. “Sam, is that actually the year?”

Sam glanced over at Melissa’s writing and told him that it was. “Why? What year do you think it is?”

Dean sighed. “Not that one. Years earlier.”

That response seemed to rob Sam of some of his stoicism. “What’s the last thing you remember?” the younger hunter asked. His brother figuratively scratched his head in response before answering. “Chuck. Amara. They quit trying to kill each other and left, but not before she brought Mom back. Please don’t tell me that I imagined all of that. Please don’t tell me that was just djinn venom,” he begged.

Sam’s heart sank in his chest, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “It wasn’t your imagination,” Sam confirmed for him, “but Mom’s gone again.”

Dean’s own eyes welled with tears in response. “What happened?”

“There’s too much to tell,” Sam protested, and Dean slammed a fist down on his bedside table, splintering it into pieces with an uproarious crack. Dean stared at it in disbelief, but Sam managed to wipe his face with a small chuckle. “Your strength’s coming back.”

Derek quickly appeared through the doorway with other faces Dean didn’t recognize, but Sam held up a pausing hand. “It’s okay,” he reassured them, and hesitantly, they withdrew. Dean glared back at Sam. “What the Hell, Sammy? We got rid of the First Blade. Don’t tell me I’m a demon again.”

Sam shook his head in the negative. “You’re not,” he promised truthfully. “But it’s… _complicated_.”

“Dammit, Sammy!” Dean shouted. “I’m not a Facebook status. I want answers! Start talking, or I will leave here right now, even if I have to drag my ass out on my hands and knees.”

Sam sighed, and Dean knew that he’d won. After many hours of long explanations that lasted well after dawn and closer to the noonday sun, the elder Winchester was beginning to wish he’d lost that argument. He had a headache from trying to make sense of it all, and before it was done, he wanted to scream. He did… more than once. Sam told him everything. The British Men of Letters. Lucifer. Alternate worlds, including Apocalypse World with a new Charlie and a new Bobby. Jack. Castiel. Billie was Death. Asmodeus deposed Crowley but was killed by Gabriel, who was also back. Dean agreed to be Michael’s vessel, who unsurprisingly betrayed him. Not only was Mary back, but John was as well, albeit briefly. Jack accidentally killed Mary. Crowley was gone, and Rowena was the new Queen of Hell. Chuck and all his lies and machinations were behind everything. Every cruel and capricious twist of fate they had endured was just fodder for his amusement. And now? Now everyone was gone. Bobby, Castiel, Charlie, Crowley, John, Mary… all of them. Rowena kept Hell in order, and Jack was now God in absentia.

It was just him and Sam again. Well, sort of. A part of him longed for blissful forgetfulness, but he knew that wasn’t an option. “How long have I been the djinn Alpha’s bitch, Sammy?”

“You’ve been gone for six months,” he replied. “You’d be long dead if you weren’t a werewolf.”

Dean’s eyes went wide. “A _what_?”


	2. Scott 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends rally around to try to help one of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short transition chapter. Those who've read the earlier works in this series will start seeing some "familiarity" in the chapter to follow.

“Thanks for coming,” Sam offered, standing to his full height as the other man entered. Dean looked over from where he still rested in his hospital bed. He didn’t recognize the newcomer, but his brother seemed to know and trust him, which set him at-ease. Besides, the chocolate-brown eyes, crooked jaw, and warm smile held no secrets or malice. Not to mention, there was something dimly familiar in his face.

The younger man nodded. “Of course,” he offered, motioning for Sam to sit before taking the seat opposite him. As he started to speak further, a light bulb went off in his mind when he stared at the kind visage that he could have sworn he’d seen before. “You’re Melissa’s son.”

It was a statement, rather than a question. He could sense the excitement in the younger Winchester, who eagerly asked, “You remember him?”

Dean winced, knowing he was about to disappoint his sibling. “No, I don’t,” he confessed solemnly. “He’s got her eyes and smile.”

Sam deflated, but the other man’s expression didn’t change. “Thank you,” he replied, “and yes, I am. My name’s Scott McCall. I’m here to try to help if you’ll let me. How much do you remember about becoming or being a werewolf?”

The older hunter shook his head. “Absolutely nothing. If anyone but Sammy told me that, I would think they were nuts. I’ve been a ghost, a vampire, a Jefferson Starship, and a Knight of Hell. I knew when I was all of those. I felt the difference—well, besides the first one, but it quickly became obvious I was dead in short order. I don’t feel any different, aside from currently like shit.”

“Jefferson Starships?” Scott raised a brow, confused.

“Long story,” Sam shook his head. “I’ll tell you another time.”

Dean snorted in derision. “He’s not even old enough to get the name, is he?”

Sam shook his head again with a bemused smirk.

The elder Winchester groaned. “Have I really turned into that old guy that’s completely out of touch with the next generation, stuck citing references they don’t understand?”

Scott smiled, and Sam laughed. “Dude, _turned into_? That was you in your twenties. You drove a 1967 Impala and listened to nothing recorded after the eighties. You’re two decades older than that. Rest assured, nothing has changed.”

“Jerk,” Dean grumbled.

“Bitch,” Sam quickly retorted.

Scott just watched the exchange in amusement. They reminded him of himself and Stiles, honestly. While he and his best friend didn’t share blood, they were brothers, nonetheless. He recognized the relationship. “How much have you explained?” he asked the younger hunter.

“Nothing. Trying to explain without context seemed like more harm than help,” he explained. “I was hoping maybe you could try to unlock some of his lost memories.”

Scott nodded. “Dean,” he began, realizing that he and Sam were beginning to talk about Dean as if he weren’t in the room, “did Sam tell you what I am?” He knew that Sam could have answered, but he was trying not to set off Dean’s instincts.

“You’re a werewolf,” Dean answered.

“Yes,” Scott affirmed, allowing his eyes to glow their supernatural crimson. “I’m an alpha, and one of the abilities I possess is to access the memories of others. I do this by inserting my claws into the back of the neck next to the spinal column. While it’s not completely without risk, I’m experienced enough to minimize that chance.”

“You sure you’re a veterinarian?” Sam smiled. “Your bedside manner is far better than most doctors I’ve met.”

Scott grinned. “My patients are far easier to deal with. The worst they can do is bite me.”

Dean stared at the werewolf. “The red eyes are different. That’s usually a crossroads demon thing. Never saw that with Garth, or even….” The words trailed off. He started to say a name, but he didn’t want to hurt his brother.

Sam seemed to sense it. “Madison,” he offered gently. “You can say it. She was a long time ago, long before we knew even a fraction of what we know about werewolves. We probably couldn’t have helped her anyway. I stopped feeling guilty about that years ago, and I’ve never blamed you.”

Dean breathed a bit easier after that. Then his mind rewound the conversation back a few sentences. “Wait, you said _an_ alpha. There’s only one werewolf Alpha,” he stated before losing his conviction and turning to Sam.

“Not that kind of Alpha,” Sam amended. “There are different types of werewolves, but let’s hold off on that discussion till Scott tries his thing.” Glancing over at the younger man, he asked, “You’re sure about this? You can undo this?”

Scott shrugged. “I can try, and I’m fairly confident I can do it without causing any damage. If I feel anything even slightly amiss, I’ll stop, though I should point out that whatever type of werewolf he is was able to keep him alive longer than even I could have survived. I think we’ll be fine. I’m not an expert like Talia Hale was. I’ve never locked memories away like she did with Peter after Malia was born, but I have unlocked them before.” He looked down at Dean. “The question is, though, do you want me to? We’re not doing anything without your permission. If you don’t want me to try, I won’t. No harm, no foul.”

Dean stared at Scott in scrutiny. Sam was momentarily afraid that his brother wouldn’t let the alpha try. “You sure you’re a vet?” Dean finally asked. “You barely look out of high school, much less college.”

Scott laughed. “Werewolves age more slowly, and for the record, my ten-year high school reunion is coming up.”

Sam knew Dean had made up his mind before his brother attempted to sit up, allowing Scott access to his neck. Helping him forward, he sat on the bed to allow Dean to rest his head against his shoulder. “Okay, Doggie Howser. Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is welcome. In YouTube vernacular, leave a comment, hit like, and subscribe :)


	3. Deaton 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, the memories are back--such as they are. Now what to do with them?

As news of Dean’s revival spread, the waiting room filled the pack and its allies. Scott, meanwhile, was unlocking memory after memory—years’ worth. The process looked exhausting just for Sam to watch. Neither seemed in any actual physical distress, but the expressions on their faces were causing _him_ pain. He felt like he was reliving the last decade as well. After the process had already stretched on well into the night, he could take no more, so he went out to tell the others that no news was still good news.

He walked over to the coffee pot to fix himself a cup. Derek was already there doing the same. The werewolf’s face held its usual stoicism, but Sam knew the younger man well enough to see through to what was underneath. Sam placed a reassuring hand on Derek’s shoulder, causing the act to falter. “He’ll remember,” Sam told him, and Derek all but collapsed into his embrace, his head falling against Sam’s shoulder as Dean’s had done hours earlier. “Don’t give up on him.”

Sam wasn’t sure if anyone was watching the exchange, but he was certain that Derek was hurting too badly to care. The werewolf had his arms around him and was clutching at the collar of his shirt so intensely that it threatened to choke him, but he said nothing. Derek was pretty much his brother-in-law by this point. He was family in a way that so few people had managed to become to the Winchesters, and then he’d become something far more by being so important to Dean. He loved Derek like a brother, and it killed him to see him in so much pain.

When Sam heard everyone stirring, he turned to see the cause. Scott had just entered the waiting room, and he was barely upright, looking as though he were ready to collapse at any moment. Liam and Malia quickly ushered him to a seat, and in the blink of an eye, Derek was at his side. Sam quickly followed. Everyone wanted to ask, but no one could bring themselves to do so. Scott obviously sensed that, because after taking a moment to catch his breath, he answered the unspoken question.

“I’ve done all I can,” Scott told them. “Unfortunately, it’s not enough. I was able to unlock Dean’s memories, but they’re not the right ones. They’re these bogus, nonsensical things that the djinn Alpha’s venom must have created. There’s a whole history in there I don’t even recognize.” He looked over at Derek. “I wish I had even half your mother’s ability so I could overwrite them with the real ones, but I’m completely out of my depth here.”

Sam’s face scrunched as he processed what Scott had told him. “What kind of things?” he asked.

Scott’s own face scrunched in return as he tried his best to figure out how to explain. “It’s a convoluted mess that started when Dean was bitten by Deucalion, and apparently you were bitten, but you didn’t turn. As to why? I have no idea. So many jumbled fragments that don’t even make sense to me, even when I was present for the events they were superimposed on. It’s like some hack fanfiction writer picked and chose elements, stringing them together only to forget that they had included them in the first place.”

“I think the reason that his mind isn’t rejecting it all outright is that there are traces of the truth— _barely_ —that his subconscious recognizes. He knows he’s a werewolf, but he thinks he’s a werewolf like us. Specifically, he thinks he’s an Alpha, he thinks Derek’s still an Alpha, and he thinks Jackson’s an Alpha,” Scott attempted to elaborate, only to be interrupted by Isaac and Stiles, speaking in unison. _“He wishes_.”

Jackson pointed a hand at both and flipped them off, _also_ in unison. Ethan promptly swatted his arm. “Behave,” he scolded. “And before you even think of saying they started it, don’t… or you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” The former Kanima pouted at the former Alpha, and Isaac and Stiles beamed gleefully.

Cora and Lydia looked at one another, then they looked at their own significant others. “The two of you _did_ start it,” the former pointed out. The latter added, “So stop it, or you two will be sleeping on the couch as well.”

Derek ignored the immature exchange and stared at his friend hopefully. “He remembers me, though?” he asked. “Does he remember… _us_?”

Scott’s brow furrowed in contemplation. He was clearly searching for words. “Yes,” he said, rather drawn out and tentatively. “I mean, sort of, I guess. He thinks you’re mates.”

“ _Mates?_ ” Derek repeated.

“Is that even a thing?” Liam chimed in curiously, having remained quiet until now.

Cora and Derek continued the streak of speaking in unison with a simple, if somewhat emphatic, _no_. Derek, though, showed a spark of optimism. “But he still has feelings for me?”

Scott looked devastated to shake his head. “It’s not that simple. I unlocked the memories, but it’s like his conscious brain knows that what he remembers is wrong, so it’s rejecting them. I think that it is part of his healing process. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the real ones to reconcile against.”

“Will they come back in time? Like regenerate or something?” Corey wondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “Dean’s not like us. A werewolf, yes, but he’s completely different. Except when he transforms, he’s essentially human. There isn’t really a healing process otherwise, at least not in the way that we understand.”

Mason added, “But I mean, we know that nothing outside of silver has any lingering effect. Presumably, unless he’s killed by silver, he can heal from anything right? Getting impaled by rebar and being salted and burned didn’t take. He came back after the next full moon, right?”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Yeah. I mean, we assume. After Jack became the new God…,” he began.

“Still weird, by the way,” Theo cut in.

“Shut up!” Stiles fired back. The two had long ago put aside the lethal animosity, and Stiles even reluctantly trusted Theo to have the backs of his pack members (since Scott allowed him in—again), but the two were hardly friends, and animosity lingered.

Lydia glowered at Stiles. “Sofa city, sweetheart,” she told him flatly.

Theo smirked. Liam snorted next to him. “That goes for you as well. We’ve talked about this.” The young beta had gone from trusting Theo to hating him, only to be saved and helped by him repeatedly. The pair were slow on the uptake (unlike Lydia, who’d noticed it before anyone), but that tension between them turned out to be of a specific type. After lots of sex, it became obvious to everyone that anger wasn’t even the strongest emotion that they shared for one another, and they’d been together ever since.

“Really?” Theo protested. “I have one day off this week, and I’m still spending at the hospital to be here for everyone only to have my balls busted. I’m telling your father.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “He’s the Chief of Staff. He doesn’t play favorites with his residents.”

Theo pouted. “Even the ones that are like sons to him?”

“You’re the one who wants to be a big-time cardiothoracic surgeon,” Liam chided. “Put in the work. Nothing comes easy.”

Theo smirked again and was about to speak. Liam quickly clamped his hand over the other man’s mouth. “Don’t _even_ think it.”

Sam had watched and listened to the exchanges. It warmed his soul that essentially everyone here had found the people they wanted to spend their lives with, it made him miss Eileen that much more. She had wanted to come, but she was too far along in the pregnancy to catch a flight to California. He would have been terrified to leave her alone in her condition had Jody and Donna not agreed to take turns staying with her.

Then he looked over at Derek. The antics of the pack were heartwarming, but Derek was utterly silent. Everyone had sort of glossed over Dean not actually remembering being in love with the younger werewolf. He reached over and pulled Derek into a hug. The shorter man didn’t resist. In fact, he all but collapsed into Sam’s arms all over again. The room fell silent as half of them were assaulted with the chemo-signals of Derek’s no longer repressed agony.

Derek looked almost small, and it was Isaac and Jackson, his former betas, who crossed over and joined in the embrace. They held tightly to him, as if trying to draw out the pain that their werewolf healing could not diminish. Cora looked on with a sympathetic smile, knowing that tactile presence would help to calm her brother, even if it could not actually alleviate the hurt.

“What do we do now?” Sam asked Scott softly. He hoped the alpha had an idea because he, himself, was fresh out.

Scott did. “Now we call someone who has more experience than I do.”

“ _Why_ do I have to stay in this hospital if I will eventually heal on my own anyway?” Dean grumbled.

A voice from the doorway answered before Sam had the chance. “Because it’s over three weeks until the next full moon, and if you want to heal your mind, your body needs rest to do its part.”

Dean glanced up to see a shaved pate African American man with a knowing smile staring at him. “Deaton,” the elder Winchester greeted with a smile of his own.

The younger stood and walked over to give the emissary a handshake. “Alan, it’s been a long time,” Sam offered.

“It has,” the druid acknowledged, nodding to his former protégé. “I believe Scott has filled me on most of the pertinent details.”

Scott, for his part, was looking through the bag of items that his one-time boss had brought. They were primarily natural ingredients, of course—the tools Alan used to perform his “magic”. Most, if not all, had come from the shelves of the clinic. “I’m glad you remembered where to look,” the alpha chuckled. “I walk into that place every day. The supplies you left have been largely untouched, but I didn’t even know most of this stuff was still there.”

Deaton smiled. “Not all of them were among those you knew about. There are still ample hidden nooks and crannies that I didn’t tell you about because you had no need to know about them. If the need had arisen, I would have.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I never changed the lock so that your key still worked,” Scott chuckled. “Since I obviously would have never found them.” Deaton just gave that imperious half-smile that bordered smug superiority. Scott knew the look all too well. It had driven the pack—Stiles, in particular—to near madness.

As Alan withdrew a mortar and pestle, he placed several herbs and such inside, beginning to grind as he spoke. “There are a few constants we need to establish in your mind as anchor points for both foundation knowledge and timeline so that you will be able to piece together the truth rather than your false memories.”

“Okay,” Dean answered flatly, though Sam could hear the reluctance and doubt in his tone. “But why won’t it do it on its own? I mean, I don’t have any bogus memories of Sam that don’t have to do with the pack. Why was I able to get those back but not the rest?”

Deaton shook his head. “You didn’t get those back,” he explained. “You never lost them. Sam is your strongest tether. From your earliest recollections, he’s always been there. I’m certain that you would have eventually lost him as well, as your absent memories of recent years attests, but I suspect that given how strongly your identity has been tied to being his brother and protector, without that, you would have died in a manner that either your seeming immortality would have been unable to counter, or your body would have become an empty husk or mindless monster.”

“Cheerful thought,” Dean grumbled again. Everyone was walking on eggshells around him, letting him process without interruption. He couldn’t take the silence and the staring, so he broke the former himself. “So why didn’t I go to another poison paradise with Sammy, Mom, and Dead, etc.? Or why not Bobby, Jack, and the rest? Why did he lock me away in my imaginings of Beacon Hills and the pack?”

Sam was the one who answered. “I know you don’t remember or understand right now, but aside from me, your strongest connection isn’t Bobby or Jack, or even Mom and Dad. It’s with Derek. You guys have been together for years. He’s the most important person in the world to you.”

Scott asked Deaton in a hushed voice, “Like his anchor?”

“Essentially,” the older man confirmed. “Without _both_ Derek and Sam, Dean, your mind would have rejected the fantasy.”

Dean listened intently. “Why don’t I remember that? I mean really remember. I don’t remember what it was like to love Derek.” A loud crash emanated from the waiting room and shook every room nearby with the force of a minor earthquake. “What the Hell was that?”

“Derek,” Scott replied. “He must have been close enough to hear that. I can smell how much he’s hurting. I need to go check on him.”

As the alpha left the room, Dean’s face looked guilty and pained. “I don’t mean to do that to him. I just don’t remember. I’m trying to wrap my head around it—really, I am—but the number of times I’ve actually been in love have been so few and far between that it would be hard enough without it being Derek.”

“You mean because he’s a guy,” Sam corrected for him. “That makes it harder?”

Dean nodded. “I mean, I’ve had my fair share of bromances over the years, but all the times I ever remember being in love? It was with women… not that many of those relationships didn’t end in dumpster fires.”

“The same is true for Derek,” Alan told him. “Before you, Derek had exactly three serious relationships. Like some of yours, I’m certain, given your line of work, his first, Paige, ended in tragedy. His second, Kate, ended in even more tragedy when she betrayed him and killed most of his family. The third, Braeden, fell apart when he realized she loved her obsessive quest for vengeance more than she loved him—more than he loved her.”

Dean nodded. “I remember all of that. So that was true?”

Deaton nodded in return. “It was. Derek had never had those sorts of feelings for a man… until you. I can give you some technical terms, but I find labels unnecessary. While both of you primarily gravitate towards women in terms of sexual attraction, as with most people, the actual connection we call love is based on your feelings towards the person. Gender is little more than a construct that upbringing and societal norms inadvertently use to shape—or block—those feelings.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants?” Dean almost chuckled, reciting the adage.

“Precisely. While some ninety percent of the world finds that bond with someone of the opposite sex, if nature teaches us anything, finding it with someone of the same sex is simply rarity, not deformity,” Alan explained. “If anything, we usually simply miss the signs. Scott is with Malia. Isaac is with Cora. Based on my own observations, if teenaged hormones and typical biases had been overcome, I think those two young men would be together now.”

Sam cut in. “And I’m still not sure Isaac and Jackson wouldn’t jump one another’s bones, given half a chance.”

Deaton nodded in agreement before continuing. “You don’t feel it right now because you don’t remember. I can make you remember events, but not feelings. That’s why you need context.”

Dean sighed. “Then hit me with the context. Whatever mojo you’re going to do, do it. I need the last few years back, for starters, but on top of that, I know Derek must have meant something to me, because right now, knowing how much pain I’m causing him is killing me.”

Alan nodded. “Strange as is it to say, that’s a good sign. But speaking of ‘killing’ you, we need to talk about your presumed death. Do you remember anything about it?”

Dean shook his head. “No. No Heaven. No Hell. No anything.” He cut his eyes towards his brother. “So help me, if you feel bad for salting and burning me, I will get up out of this bed right now and kick your ass!”

Sam could only laugh. “I guess you’re right. It didn’t stick anyway.”

“Let’s start there,” Deaton smiled. “It’s integral to establish a sequence of events for you to hold onto. When do you remember becoming a werewolf?”

Dean thought about it. “Maybe 2015,” he offered tentatively. “It was after we had a run in with Deucalion.”

The answer pained Sam, realizing just how deeply _wrong_ Dean’s memories were. “Should I tell him?” he asked the emissary.

“After he drinks this,” Deaton answered, mixing the ground herbs into a hospital-typical plastic cup of water before handing it to Dean. “It’s just to get you to let down your guard enough to not fight what we’re saying to you.”

Dean took the cup, sniffing its contents before recoiling. “Why do all of your natural concoctions smell like complete ass? And why do I get the feeling it’s going to taste worse than it smells?”

Alan smiled. “Good instincts.” He turned to Sam. “Go ahead.”

Sam nodded. “Deucalion was dead before 2015. We came here in the summer of 2011. We got a call from an old family friend.”

“Chris Argent,” Dean supplied.

As if on cue, Chris walked in. “Time for werewolf 101.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is welcome. In YouTube vernacular, leave a comment, hit like, and subscribe :)


	4. Chris 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns the how and when he became a werewolf, but those answers only lead to more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of information dump with a frenetic bit of organization to that dump. It's actually by design, to mimic what it's like for Dean's thoughts and memories. Bear with me :)

“You look like shit,” Chris smiled.

“I feel like shit,” Dean smiled back. “And you look old as fuck.”

The elder hunter nodded. “Happens to the best of us.”

The hunter-turned-werewolf watched the nonverbal exchanges between Deaton and Argent. “Okay, will you two stop beating around the bush? We’ve covered the fact that I’m a werewolf, though apparently, my memory of how that happened is gone, and apparently my general knowledge of werewolves is jacked up, much like everything else. Stop walking on eggshells and start talking so I can plug the holes in my Swiss cheese brain.”

“Scott tells me that you think you came to Beacon Hills looking for my help,” Chris began. “But in truth, you came here because I called and asked for your help.”

Dean listened intently, uncharacteristically refraining from interrupting overmuch, which bespoke how much he wanted his memories back. “We’ve known each other longer than that, though, right? I was with Dad when he came to help you and your father with a case?”

Chris nodded. “Yes. You were a fifteen-year-old punk who my twelve-year-old sister was making eyes at.”

“Sounds like me,” Dean smirked before he processed the information. “Twelve? Ugh. Please tell me I didn’t do anything inappropriate.”

“Not with her,” Chris smirked back. “But that’s a tale for another time.”

Dean’s brow rose expressively. The curiosity was written on his face, but he again said nothing of it. Instead, he asked, “How are Gerard and Kate anyway?”

“Dead,” Argent responded succinctly.

“I’m sorry,” Dean offered sincerely.

“Don’t be,” he assured the younger man neutrally.

Deaton interjected. “As expected, your memories of your first visit to Beacon Hills are intact. They were far enough back that the djinn’s venom hasn’t had a chance to rewrite them.”

Dean had already guessed as much, so he didn’t really acknowledge the declaration. Instead, he stared at Chris. “Okay, Mr. Miyagi. You came to teach me about werewolves, so teach.”

Argent’s half-smile did little to hide his amusement. “Well, for starters, know that what we know now was a group effort. Compiling centuries of my family’s own records, we compared them with your own experiences, as well as your father’s, along with firsthand accounts from your friends. Adding that to Derek and the others, we’ve _all_ learned a lot.”

“The werewolf Alpha, as in the actual first among them, has a name,” Alan cut in. “Whether or not it’s his actual name or simply _a_ name, there’s no way to know. Pelasgus, he was called, among other things, but it’s his son’s name all of us know well enough… Lycaon.”

Dean groaned. “Like the Greek myth, which I’m sure you’re about to tell me is no myth, which means Zeus is probably real too, and like pretty much every god I’ve ever encountered, he’s a meddlesome pain in the ass.”

“Good guess,” Argent chuckled. “We assumed the legends were nothing more than that until you and Sam shared firsthand encounters with deities establishing the contrary. I have to say, that’s a bit of knowledge I could have done without.”

“Join the club,” Dean agreed. “Chuck created them to take the blame for mankind’s problems, and he turned out to be the biggest problem of all.”

Chris smiled. “After you two told us about all of that, I had the family back in France get rid of all of our old religious artifacts. I’ve always been bigger into self-reliance than higher powers anyway. Besides, I like that whole ‘Team Free Will’ spiel you guys sell.”

Deaton’s expression was neutral as he spoke, bringing them back on topic. “Unlike the myths, Lycaon, like his father, was already a wolf. After he and all of his sons killed one of their own and fed him to Zeus, the King of the Olympians punished them all by robbing them of their ability to shift at will, reducing them to little more than mindless beasts. It is because of this fate that some believe Lycaon’s sons were killed… they were no longer human. The earliest among the ancient druids knew how to shift their own forms, be it through herbal concoctions, a sort of spirit-walking that allowed them to piggyback their own spirits onto those of animals, or skinwalking.”

“The Skinwalkers were druids?” Dean interrupted. “Like the ones Kira joined?”

The veterinarian nodded. “While not entirely accurate, in the interest of brevity, yes. To clarify, modern druids like myself and the skinwalkers possess a shared legacy we inherited from the druids of old. The ones who knew how to shapeshift,” he redirected.

Dean caught the hint. “Sorry,” he apologized, but Deaton simply smiled. He seemed happy enough that the hunter remembered the fate of the kitsune. Continuing, he explained, “The druids offered to teach Lycaon and his sons their secrets in exchange for accepting their guidance, to ensure that they would not threaten the balance again.”

“The first emissaries,” Chris interjected. “Those sons who accepted the bargain learned to control the shift, siring countless lines that have diverged in the specifics of their abilities—both strengths and weaknesses—which is why my own family had such difficulty in understanding and hunting werewolves. All werewolves haven’t been the same in millennia.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. It made sense to him… which almost shocked him. “So, the ones that can’t control the shift and become rampaging monsters are those descended by either blood or bite from the sons that rejected the druids’ teachings?”

Argent smiled. “And to think, Gerard always thought you were always just a pretty face,” he teased. It didn’t go unnoticed by Dean that Chris didn’t say “Dad” or “My father”, and while their relationship was hardly a scene from Norman Rockwell, the younger hunter realized it was a change from his recollections of Beacon Hills decades ago. He made a mental note to ask Sam what happened at some later point.

“I have a great ass, too,” Dean couldn’t resist adding.

“I’m sure Derek would concur,” Deaton deadpanned, reminding Dean of the emissary’s presence, forcing a crimson warmth up his neck and cheeks. “But back to the topic at hand, most werewolves you have encountered come from different sons of Lycaon—Madison, Garth Fitzgerald, Violet Duval, Brett Crezski….”

Dean’s memory nagged at him, compelling him to interrupt once more. “He was Jackson’s doppelganger in that gated community? He became a true alpha?”

Alan shook his head. “The former is accurate, but not the latter. He was killed by a crossroads demon using Charlie Monohan’s body.”

Dean’s eyes closed. Something else was pushing its way to the surface of his mind. “I remember following another lead on werewolves. We met another doppelganger?”

“Isaac’s,” Chris remarked simply, but the paternal pride at the young man’s name was evident. Dean remembered that much. “Your son. When you and Melissa got married, you guys adopted him.”

Argent smiled. “He was grown by then, but his mother and brother were gone. I wanted him to have family beyond the memory of the piece of shit Victor Lahey had been and the events that followed that bastard’s death.”

Dean understood that all too well. When he’d found out what the all-too-human monster had done to one of the sweetest kids he’d ever met, Dean wanted to resurrect him just to kill him again. Dean took the mental echo as a good sign. Neither were convoluted by the falsehoods of the djinn Alpha’s venom, and the looks on the faces of the other men told him they’d noticed the same, simply choosing not to force the issue.

Dean, however, wasn’t content to leave well enough alone. He was grasping at thoughts that were little more than wisps upon spider webs, but he was determined. “Kaleb Westphall,” he eventually supplied. “Except he’d been possessed by a dead vampire?”

Deaton smiled. “Some of your memories are righting themselves. Scott didn’t make it that far forward in restoring them before he could do no more. You remember anything else about Kaleb?”

Dean was quiet. He was making sense of the circumstances, and when either Argent or Deaton spoke to placate him (he didn’t even notice which), he simply shushed them both. “We went looking for Bonnie Bennett in Mystic Falls. We found Tyler Lockwood, and we thought there might be some info we could gain that would point us towards a cure.”

Chris and Alan looked at one another. “Not… _exactly_ ,” Argent told him. “You weren’t a werewolf yet. It was the doppelganger connection that you were following up on, because you wanted to know what it meant for Jackson.”

“The werewolves you encountered in Virginia are not of the like the other werewolves,” Deaton began. “A darach named Inadu cursed the members of her tribe upon her death. It was a twisted approximation of the original curse of Lycaon that turned humans into wolves that belonged to one of seven ‘bloodlines.’ They are not descended from Pelasgus, so they’re not true werewolves.”

Dean’s headache was back. “One of which sired Klaus Mikaelson, and it was his brother, Kol, who possessed Kaleb until killed by another Original, Finn.” It was a statement, not a question. “The doppelganger mess sorted itself out with the deaths of Stefan Salvatore and Elena Gilbert.” He paused, “None of this is relevant, is it?”

“Correct on all counts,” Deaton affirmed.

Dean wasn’t bothered. He was remembering something. Even if not pertinent to his present, it was still part of his past, and the two men before him clearly respected that. “What about that werewolf pack up in Washington state?”

“The line of Lycaon,” Argent confirmed. “Though those sparkly things? Not sure what they are, but definitely not vampires—not like we’ve ever seen anyway.”

Alan looked over at Chris. “That is also irrelevant.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay. So, I haven’t been a werewolf for as long as I remember. I’ve never been the type of werewolf I thought I was. I’ve never been an alpha. I died, but it didn’t stick, because I was a werewolf.”

“Correct on all counts,” Deaton repeated.

“How did I become a werewolf?” When neither man immediately spoke, Dean repeated slowly for emphasis, “ _How_ did _I_ _become_ a _werewolf_? I need this point for context, so stop beating around the bush and tell me.”

The druid seemed reluctant to give an answer, but Chris suffered from no such compunctions. “Before you and Sam went to Akron, fought a nest of vampires, and you seemingly died, you guys had another case. You caught wind of animal attacks, and because you two had been bored since Chuck, you heard hooves and thought zebras instead of horses. No missing internal organs. Just seemingly mundane wolf attacks, including one that bit you, and you guys tracked it down, and killed it. It was just a wolf. You shot and killed it, and your bite faded at a very human rate.”

“What am I missing?” Dean grimaced, not making the connection.

“By Sam’s best guess, it was a setup,” Argent told him. “The werewolf who bit you orchestrated things to turn you without you realizing it was too late. What he or she hadn’t counted on was you dying before your first change. Sam gave you your hunter’s funeral, but at some point after that, your body regenerated from virtual nothingness. The ashes coalesced, organs solidified from dust, bones knitted, muscles restitched, flesh sewed together. Your naked ass was completely fine and very much not dead. You stole some clothes, boosted a car, and made your way back here to Derek.”

Dean’s forehead scrunched. “Not to Sam at the Bunker?”

“No,” Deaton told him. “As mentioned, your connection to Derek is stronger than you realize. With your new instincts, seeking him out was your immediate priority. Once you got to Beacon Hills, Derek called Sam, and they all set out to make sense of it all. When you transformed again, everything made sense. Everything the pack did to contain you was a figurative scratch, gone by morning.”

“Aside from a silver round from my gun,” Chris amended. “I would apologize, but to help you understand, you’re basically the Incredible Hulk when you transform. Nothing Derek or Scott did even came close to slowing you down. I thought the bullet would be equally effective, but it hurt you, and come daybreak, the wound was still there. You and I confirmed that it’s silver you’re vulnerable to by breaking your skin with a silver blade shortly before you shift. When you shifted back, the cut was still there and healed as it would for me.”

Dean furrowed his brow at Deaton. “And we’re sure I’m a werewolf? Not something else?”

The druid smiled. “It’s fairly obvious you’re a werewolf, they tell me. Our only experiences with other unkillable creatures are largely limited to Sheriff Parrish, but as there’s an absence of fire, I feel safe in assuring you that you are no hellhound.”

“I thought he was a deputy… and an ifrit,” Dean muttered. He visibly shuddered. “He’s a _hellhound_?”

“Noah Stilinksi retired after he and Natalie Martin got married,” Chris explained, explaining the simpler of the two misconceptions. Alan offered the rest, “As for the other, based on what you and Sam have been able to figure out, the spirit inside Jordan is what’s left of a hellhound, likely the Alpha or one of its offspring. It seems to have died in combat with a phoenix, also possibly the Alpha, and their personalities—and powers—merged, rendering it an amortal spirit, unable to truly die. Hades released the new spirit to serve him as guardian of the Underworld, but he and Odin and other gods of the dead fought over claim on Cerberus, Garmr, Black Shuck, or whatever name they chose to ascribe to it. They settled on a compromise of having the creature safeguard the walls between worlds—the living and the dead, the natural and the supernatural.”

“Unlike the more mundane hellhounds you have encountered,” Deaton continued, “it has no physical form, relying on empowering a vessel until that vessel is destroyed or its job is temporarily done. In the case of the latter, the spirit returns to the Underworld, forsaking its host as it did with Halwyn.”

Dean was _completely_ lost again. “Okay, so Chuck got neutered, Jack became God, I got bitten, died, and came back as a werewolf,” he summarized, eliciting nods from the other men. “I’m me other than during a full moon.”

When they didn’t confirm that, instead looking at one another, he growled in a low tone. “What?”

It was Alan who finally answered. “It isn’t always on a full moon when you lose control. In fact, it’s almost completely independent. You just always transform at least once during each lunar cycle. We just use the moon to gauge absolutes of when you will have your next metamorphosis. It doesn’t appear to have any effect on you, unlike the pack or most werewolves we have encountered.”

Dean was ready to scream. “So, I become a murderous engine of destruction at indeterminate intervals without warning?”

“Not exactly,” Chris told him. “Your body has a telltale sign when the change is close. A weird brand-looking thing on your palm appears, becoming uglier and more inflamed as it draws nearer. When the brand begins to bleed, your time is almost out. Luckily, you figured all this out quickly, so you lock yourself up before you go berserk.”

“Good to know,” Dean muttered, mentally making notes. He glared at Alan. “Any other werewolf lines that match this?”

Deaton’s face remained passive. “Not exactly, but I suspect I know which son of Lycaon you can be traced to. It was Nyctimus that was sacrificed and offered to Zeus. He was brought back to life, but not by Zeus. Myths hold that Gaia herself resurrected the boy. Do not confuse this act for some fable by Aesop or Grimm fairy tale. Gaia is neither Olympian nor Titan. She is something older and far more incomprehensible. Her motives are her own, and her daughter Echidna is the one you knew as Eve. There is likely no benevolence in the act, and that one of her sacred elements—silver—can take the life she returned is testament to that.”

 _Grimm_. Why did that ring a bell? Dean heard the emissary, but he was distracted for a moment before he remembered with a hidden smile. Focusing on the topic at hand, he had to ask, “So am I werewolf forever now?”

Argent shook his head. “Sam says he can duplicate the cure you got from the Men of Letters—the one you gave Claire—but to do that, we still have to find your sire.”

“You mean I haven’t killed anyone?” Dean queried incredulously.

Chris was on the verge of chuckling. “Not since becoming a werewolf, so needless to say, the pack was more than a little put out at your attempts of tracking down your sire on your own after everything they’ve done to keep you from accidentally doing exactly that. You left a note that you had a lead and left alone to find them. That’s when you were taken by the djinn Alpha.”

That sounded like him, Dean acknowledged wordlessly. “Okay, that puts the endpoint on the timeline. What about the beginning? What brought me and Sam to Beacon Hills like a decade ago?”

The question was obviously directed at Argent, given he had called, so he answered. “It was the summer after the kids’ sophomore year. The young psychopath that was using the Kanima to kill had been murdered by my father only to return as a ghost terrorizing everyone. Not exactly my area of expertise, so I called in someone with a bit more experience.”

“Salting and burning the body didn’t fix the problem?” Dean asked. Argent shook his head. “No. Because a body wasn’t all that remained of him. He had become one with the Kanima… and its host.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is welcome. In YouTube vernacular, leave a comment, hit like, and subscribe :)


	5. Jackson 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a heart-to-heart with an unlikely source... and the reason why might be the most stunning thing he's learned yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter because I like overdramatic cliffhangers--shoot me :)

Argent and Deaton had started recounting what brought him and Sam to Beacon Hills, but the medications kicked in, and Dean fell asleep before they got very far into the tale. When he woke up some indeterminate time later, it was dark outside, and both Chris and Alan were gone. Even Sam and Derek were absent from the chairs they’d occupied when he first regained consciousness in the hospital. Instead, sitting next to him was Jackson.

The younger werewolf noticed when the hunter turned to look in his direction. “Hey,” Dean greeted, his throat scratchier and drier than he remembered. It made him wonder just how long he’d been out. Jackson smiled, removing his glasses and setting both them and the folder he was perusing aside. He must have seen the curious expression on Dean’s face, because he answered a question without being asked. “My vision’s still well above 20/20. They’re smart glasses. Kind of overrated, but it lets me watch BBC without disturbing you while I go through casefiles.”

Dean nodded unsurely. “Casefiles?” he asked. Jackson’s reaction wasn’t mocking, as Dean half-expected. Instead, the bridge of the younger werewolf’s nose scrunched in obvious concern. “Sorry,” he offered. “They all told me your memories were a mess, but seeing it firsthand is a bit disconcerting. They’re legal briefs.”

“You’re a lawyer?” the hunter asked, trying to distract Jackson from his peculiar worry. The younger man nodded. “A barrister, actually. I practice international law in London.”

That explained the affinity for BBC as his news source, Dean mentally noted. “You’re a long way from home.” Dean was trying to make light of his fractured recollections, but he was genuinely curious to fill in the blanks as well. Jackson seemed to notice and smiled gently. “Beacon Hills will always be home, too, but when you went missing, I caught the first flight.”

Dean felt a pang of guilt in his gut at that, and he felt the need to offer another “Sorry.” He sensed a recurring theme emerging. Jackson waved it off dismissively. “I can handle most of my meetings online. I just finished one about an hour before you woke up, actually. Aside from the time difference, it’s not a big deal. I can always use Dad’s office here if I need an actual physical space. It was more important to be here for you.”

The guilt remained, but there was a strange warming undercurrent in it. Dean felt a connection to the young man he was all but staring at, but there was a dissonance as well. He struggled to put it into words, but finally, he settled on, “You’re nothing at all like I remember—or fake remember, whatever.”

Jackson smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he chuckled. “You probably remember me as the jackass I was in high school. There’s a reason Stiles called me that enough to make it my unofficial nickname. I was a dick. I still can be, though the instances are much fewer and farther between. Time forces us all to grow up a bit, but honestly, working through my abandonment issues and realizing that I have people who love me—pack, friends, family—that’s what brought about the change.”

“A change for the better,” Dean told him, surprised at the maturity, contrasting so much with what he “remembered.” As the words spilled past his lips, he noticed something he hadn’t before. He saw platinum on the ring finger of Jackson’s left hand. “You’re married?” It felt like a stupid question once he said it aloud, and he regretted even giving it voice.

Jackson, however, practically beamed at the observation. He thumbed the wedding band almost reverently. “Ethan and I got married after I finished my studies at Oxford. We got married in England, but don’t tell anyone. We opted for a big thing when we came back stateside that summer and renewed our vows, though we told everyone it was for the first time. The only people who knew differently were you and Derek. Actually, Danny knew as well.”

That simple fact spoke volumes to Dean about how close he was to Jackson. He didn’t trust his mind well enough to vocalize that relationship just yet, but an errant thought occurred to him. “Danny introduced you two, didn’t he?” Jackson nodded with a smile, pleased that Dean had remembered something that he clearly learned outside of the timeframe so skewed by the djinn Alpha’s venom. “He did. He wanted to come to the wedding, but his schedule didn’t allow it. It sucked not having my best friend there, but it’s the thought that counts. Besides, you and Derek were there. That was more than enough.”

Dean noticed the unsurprising pairing of his name along with Derek’s yet again. Sam’s name was conspicuously absent. He’d heard “Sam and Dean” so much in his life that it struck him a bit weird to hear a different coupling. It didn’t bother him nearly as much as it confused him. He genuinely wanted to remember loving Derek like he clearly did, because seeing the hurt look on the werewolf’s face—not to mention the pained sympathy when everyone else looked at Derek—made him feel like the shittiest person in the world.

“Where’s everyone else? Waiting room?” Dean asked. “I’ve noticed that you guys don’t tend to leave anyone flying solo with me long in case I go all psycho rage monster.”

Jackson growled lowly. He didn’t like that one bit, and Dean realized it instantly. “You’re not a monster. You’re a werewolf. You might be out of control, but that doesn’t define you. Trust me,” he told Dean. “You and Sam helped me realize that.” He held up a hand that extended into a vicious-looking claw that definitely didn’t belong to any werewolf. A clear, viscous fluid coated the now reptilian-talon. “I sent everyone else home to get some sleep because you might be the big bad wolf, but you have to be able to move to pose a danger to anyone.”

“I thought you were a werewolf?” Dean asked, not intending any offense, and Jackson took none.

“I am,” Jackson assured him. “Though I’m a kanima as well. The wolf is my go-to, but the kanima? It’s still there, just below the surface. It doesn’t feel natural—nothing about it ever did—but it’s a part of me. I’ve learned to embrace it… to use it when I need to. The difference from before is that I’m in the driver’s seat, so it doesn’t actually scare me anymore. If I was going to offer you any advice, it would be that the werewolf inside you doesn’t define you. Ironic, actually, since I learned that lesson from you.”

Dean didn’t really remember any such advice. It sounded far more sagely that anything he was apt to come up with. He couldn’t dispute it, though, so he opted for explanation. “That was after Chris called us?”

Jackson nodded. “I pretty much insisted Derek give me the Bite. He did, but my own issues kept me from becoming the wolf I was meant to be. Instead, I became the kanima—a mindless, homicidal lizard creature whose sole purpose was retribution. I was a killer of killers, used like a weapon by one of my own classmates… one of my own teammates. His name was Matt Daehler. In the end, karma bit him in the ass.”

Dean listened intently. Jackson half-smiled ruefully. “My object all sublime, I shall achieve in time—to let the punishment fit the crime.”

“What?” the hunter asked, more lost than ever. Jackson shook his head apologetically. “It’s a line from an opera called _The Mikado_ , by Gilbert and Sullivan. Ethan drags me to the West End a lot,” he explained. “Matt had me murder his so-called murderers, and in the end, Gerard Argent murdered him. A near-drowning had twisted him onto his path for vengeance, then that asshole snuffed out his life by drowning him. His life left him beneath the water’s surface, and as angry as I was—as I still am—for what he had me do, I still feel sorry for him in a way.”

The elder man snorted. “You’re a better man than me.”

Jackson smirked. “Hardly. After that, Gerard took control of me, and when his own daughter ripped him apart a few years later, I couldn’t bring myself to have an ounce of compassion for him. Luckily, unlike Matt, his ass actually stayed dead.”

“He was the ghost?” Dean finally put those pieces together. “Matt, that is?”

Jackson nodded. “He was killing the ones I hadn’t.” He looked away as if he felt judged under the older man’s gaze. “To quote Bucky Barnes in _Civil War_ , I remember them all.” He knew he was rambling a bit, and he looked back up at the hunter with an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I’ve spent too much time around Stiles over the years, and I’ve turned into a comic book nerd.”

Dean chuckled. “It’s fine. You’ve met my brother, right?”

Jackson’s face twisted into a quizzical expression, but he otherwise dismissed the question. “Victor Lahey. Tucker Cornish. Sean Long. Kara Simmons. That hunter, Bennett. A sheriff’s station full of deputies,” he recited like a mantra—like a prayer of penance. “As if all that blood wasn’t enough, along with Jessica Bartlett, who he smothered to death, then Matt came back as a ghost, consumed by rage. He worked his way down the list of the 2006 swim team, adding Stacey Caldwell, Michelle Sink, T.J. Cannon, and Terry Daniel before Argent figured out what was responsible and called you and Sam.”

Dean listened intently. While he’d never been accused of being particularly in tune with people’s feelings, he could tell that Jackson needed to recount this story. It was like exhaling a cathartic breath, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever told the tale to anyone that wasn’t there, aside from perhaps Ethan—even him?

“We salted and burned Matt’s bones, but when Michelle Davidson was the next victim, we knew something was wrong. That’s when you guys came,” Jackson explained. “We weren’t able to save Mary Eaton, but that was when Sam figured it out.”

Dean knew this part. Chris had told him. “You were what kept him connected to this world.”

Jackson nodded. “The bastard had taken control of me— _again_ —this time by possessing me. It was the first time I turned back into the kanima. I killed Ashley Cook, but when he— _I—_ tracked down Daniel Ellis, you were basically a human shield. You put yourself in front of him, and try as he might, Matt couldn’t make me attack you.”

“It’s funny,” he continued. “We all assumed it was the power of love, which I said was completely lame at the time, that enabled Lydia to remind me who I was, turning me back the first time. Of course, it wasn’t long after that we learned she was a banshee, so there’s more than a little supernatural push behind her voice. Matt, now dead, had a much stronger hold the second time around, and she still had no control over her abilities. It wasn’t her that helped me remember who I was… it was you. As much as it pained my then self-absorbed ass to admit it, it _was_ the power of love that broke his hold. When I took the reins of the kanima away from him, there was nothing left of Matt Daehler. He was gone for good.”

The quiet hunter interrupted. “So, we obviously knew we were brothers by then,” he smiled proudly.

“Not _exactly_ ,” Jackson corrected in a sympathetic tone. “I’m not sure how much more I should say right now.”

“Just tell me,” Dean told him. His frustration was clear, and Jackson didn’t need chemo-signals to pick up on it.

Jackson’s nostrils flared for a moment before nodding. “I’m not your brother, Dean. I’m your son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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